


a different kind of pain

by deadstarsstillburn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 15, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadstarsstillburn/pseuds/deadstarsstillburn
Summary: The Reds and Blues play a game with one specific condition.





	a different kind of pain

**Author's Note:**

> in the middle of my 2017 round-up, i wrote this today! many thanks to [anneapocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse) for betaing this in a hurry, and helping me get it posted.

“Alright,” Wash says. “Let’s address the elephant in the room.”

“They have Carolina, sooo we’re fucked,” Tucker drones.

“Not quite. She can’t cover every side at once. If we rush her and take her out of the game first, we can still win against the Reds.”

“So… Wait. _Agent Tightass_ want us to charge in?”

“I want us to _strategically—_ ”

"No time. It's already started. We wait any longer and they'll come _in here_ , and I am not cleaning that up." Tucker hands Caboose his gun. “Let’s go.”

Caboose cheers as they run off. Wash’s shoulders slump. "But _—"_

"Come on!"

“Oh, goddammit,” he sighs and runs after them.

They’re screwed.

“Oh no!” Caboose hollers 10 yards out. “I am wearing my favorite shirt!”

Wash would roll his eyes, but he’s already looking for a streak of the aquamarine tank Carolina had on earlier. “Why would you wear your favorite shirt _to paintball_?”

“Just take it off,” Tucker says. “No way you’re not getting hit.”

No way it isn’t going to hurt like hell taking a hit on bare skin, but Wash keeps his opinions to himself. This would be simpler in armor, but no one’s touched so much as a piece of it in weeks. Ultimately, it’s freeing, living like this again, but it leaves them vulnerable today.

Regardless, he’ll take paintball with the Reds and Blues over Freelancer training sessions any day. Paintballs sting, but lockdown foam _sucks._

***

“And we’re _sure_ we ain’t got none’a these paintball guns that come as a shotgun,” Sarge asks, scowling down at his sidearm.

Carolina rolls her eyes sky high. “No, Sarge. Just pistols.” Sarge and Grif haven’t given any indication of why Simmons decided to sit out today, but she’s pretty sure Sarge would’ve brought the house down if she and Wash tried to be on the same team anyway. It’s only fair.

“What about Washington?”

“What about him?”

“He’s the only one of your dirty Blues who stands a chance against us.”

A smirk tugs at her lips. “Leave that to me.”

“Okay!” From where he’s sunbathing in a lawn chair (in a _very_ tiny pair of pink shorts, sunglasses, and nothing else), Donut sounds the horn to signal the game’s start. Carolina and Sarge take off in different directions. Grif doesn’t move at all.

“ _GRIF_ ,” Sarge calls over his shoulder. “Get your ass in gear and get movin’!”

“I’m guarding the base!” Grif shouts back.

“It’s _paintball_ , moron!” Which Grif totally knows. Carolina snorts, and jogs off to the rocks where there’s more cover.

Knowing Wash, he’ll probably try to sneak in and take her out by himself. It won't work. She'll be ready. As soon as she gets a whiff of him, she’ll take him out first.

And she _is_ ready, but not for a shirtless Caboose to come bursting out from around the formation she peeks out around.

“CHARGE!” He yells… completely at a standstill. She can hear fast footfalls in the grass beyond. Tucker’s, then.

This rock is big. Big enough that he and Wash may be trying to come in from behind.

__

_Bow chicka—_

“Alright,” Carolina says, tucking her gun under her arm. She won't need it if Caboose comes any closer. She raises her hands in surrender, low enough that she can keep the pistol wedged between her side and elbow. “You got me.”

Caboose has planted himself just at the edge of her reach. It’s only Caboose, but she still doesn’t want to risk it just yet while his gun is pointed at her. Who knows—it could go off _accidentally._

Good thing Freckles isn’t in that thing.

“I have captured you! Now you can be Blue again!” The footsteps are back. Caboose advances just as they get loud enough to mean trouble.

Perfect.

“Caboose, _move,_ ” Tucker yells. He fires, and misses as she darts to put Caboose in front of her.

Carolina grabs Caboose by the arm and pulls him in to use as a shield, turning them both to face their new arrivals. The movement drops her gun to the grass, but she easily relieves him of his. He’s tall, yet doesn't resist her maneuvering him to stand in front of her at all.

“I remember this! You are being a space pirate!”

“You were supposed to _shoot_ her,” Tucker complains. He and Wash open fire; Wash’s paint whizzes past her head, but one of Tucker’s shots catch Caboose square in the chest.

Caboose howls in pain. “Tucker! Why would you do that!”

“I wasn’t aiming for you! Fuck, this thing sucks!”

“Really?” She teases. “I thought you were trying to shoot the paint _through_ him.”

“Shut up.”

Wash laughs as they continue to fire and miss. “This is the worst gun ever. Flank her! Remember, she can't cover—"

Carolina shoots Tucker three times as soon as he turns his head away. Her first shot barely catches him. They’re right: the accuracy on these guns is pretty bad.

“Ow,” Tucker yelps. “Ow, ow! Okay, you can stop shooting!”

“What she can’t see,” Wash finishes, ducking as Carolina fires at him. “I guess it's up to me.”

“I guess so—OW!” He called it; her attention can only be in so many places at once. She pulls Caboose away from the rock, and trips over another one. Her ankle twists in a direction it was never meant to, and the pain shoots all the way up to her knee.

This _is_ just like Chorus.

She releases Caboose so that only one of them goes crashing to the ground.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Within seconds, Wash is knelt at her side, hands hovering like he isn’t sure whether to touch her.

__

_Unarmed._

She doesn't think about it for even a second more before she snatches Caboose’s gun out of the grass and shoots him in the stomach.

“Gotcha.”

Wash stills. “We really need to switch to low-impact guns,” he wheezes. His eyes are watery, lips pursed into a wavering line, and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes say he's trying not to smile. “That doesn't count,” he adds, voice clearer. “I called time out.”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did, I said…” He frowns in thought. “No, I guess I didn't actually _say_ the words ‘time out’."

She smiles.

Tucker approaches, shirt splattered and dripping. “Fuckin’ brutal, dude. So she wins? How did she win, we had her outnumbered three to one!”

“ _She_ doesn't win, her team does.”

Tucker sighs. "C'mon, Caboose."

She watches Wash swipe his fingers through the paint on his shirt and reach for her. She doesn't extend any part of her for easy pickings, but she doesn't exactly shy away as he smears a stripe under her eyes, either. “You're out, too.” He flops down next to her.

The paint is cool on her face as it dries. Doesn't smell too bad, either. “Your team was eliminated first.”

“The round hasn't been called over. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Her ankle is throbbing. Gonna be a bitch to put weight on it. She hasn't moved from where she fell flat on her ass.

Wash takes a moment to bask in the sun, blonde hair backlit by its rays, dark roots prominent as ever. Then he gives her thigh a tap with the side of his hand that's still clean. “C’mon, let's get you iced up.”

“I’m fine,” she says again.

He snorts. “If you could move, you would have.” He rises and smiles down at her. “If you won't get up, I'll have to carry you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“Consider it a very special offer.”

By the time they make it back to Blue Base, Carolina on Wash’s back isn't even the oddest sight to be seen. The Reds and Blues are _covered_ in paint. Probably out of ammunition, given that they’re now standing around bickering with each other. Or it could just be Tuesday.

“Give you one guess as to who shot Grif,” Wash says. If the colors are to be believed, Grif mostly encountered friendly fire. A lot of it.

Sarge.

“Well, it definitely wasn't either of _ours_ ,” she says. Sarge does look like Caboose and Tucker got a few good hits in, and vice versa. He's also taken some red shots to the back. _Good for you, Grif._

“Ours, huh? I thought you were a Red now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Wash takes her inside and sits her on top of the first floor kitchen counter, and pulls out the first aid kit they keep under the sink. It's one of many; they learned the hard way to keep them scattered through the base. She watches him set about making an ice pack, and marvels a little at them here, now, in this giant base on a moon no one will ever find, as he quietly takes care of her.

“That went well,” Wash comments as he begins wrapping her ankle. His hands are softer than she expected them to be, but callused at the tips from playing guitar. He wraps the ice pack to sit on a layer of bandages, careful not to jostle her ankle or place the pack directly on her skin.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “Was it your idea to go all in?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. Thought I’d try the way they overwhelmed me, way back when.”

Interesting.

“Oh yeah?” comes Tucker’s voice from the doorway. He has paint in his dreads. “Because _I heard_ Sarge say he kicked your ass all over Red Base.”

“And you believed that,” Wash asks flatly.

“No,” Tucker shrugs, “but it’s fun as hell to picture.” Wash throws a dish towel at Tucker, who walks off laughing.

Caboose is next to stop in the kitchen, waving a shirt around that Wash ducks hastily. “Agent Washingtub! I found my shirt!”

“Good for you, Caboose. Next time don’t wear it to paintball.”

“I will try to remember,” Caboose says, bending to investigate the contents of the fridge. “But I thought, today is special, and my shirt is special, so they will go perfect together!” He emerges empty-handed and opens the freezer, face breaking into a smile as he peers into it. “Ice cream!” He removes the half-gallon container of rocky road and grabs a spoon.

“Caboose,” Wash interjects, “you’re supposed to serve a _portion_ , not take—”

And off Caboose goes, holding the entire carton.

Carolina slides down from the counter, and grits her teeth when she tests her ankle. It sucks, as she expected.

“Want pain killers?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, but now is supposed to be better, right?”

It’s a simple statement, but it gives her pause. It’s hard to consider sometimes, after everything they’ve lost, that now could be better.

That she could deserve a happy ending.

But it is. Despite everyone who isn’t here to see it, it is.

“Hand ‘em over,” she mutters. She isn’t looking at Wash to see if he’s smiling, but she suspects he is. Their fingers brush when he passes a glass of water and two tablets of ibuprofen; the contact lingers just a second too long. She looks up, and there it is, that tired smile lighting his eyes. Her lips curl in response.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Wash says as he leaves the kitchen.

She will. She’s getting better at this whole ‘asking for help’ thing.

 _Better._ She sips her water, and tastes the word silently on her tongue.

It isn’t perfect. There are still bumps, but it feels good.

She’ll take it.

She pushes away from the counter and hobbles toward the living room. There is ice cream with her name on it, and she is getting some of it before it's gone.


End file.
